April 25, 2015

When Earth's Last Picture Is Painted by Rudyard Kipling

WHEN Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it -- lie down for an aeon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew.

And those that were good shall be happy; they shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair.
They shall find real saints to draw from -- Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only The Master shall praise us, and only The Master shall blame;
Andd no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They are!

Posted by gerardvanderleun at April 25, 2015 11:35 PM
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"It is impossible to speak in such a way that you cannot be misunderstood." -- Karl Popper N.B.: Comments are moderated and may not appear immediately. Comments that exceed the obscenity or stupidity limits will be either edited or expunged.

Both sad and uplifting. Wonderful.

Posted by: ghostsniper at April 26, 2015 6:37 AM

To labor unwearied and with a soaring heart. Or should I say a 'young' heart?

Nice poem, Gerard.


"Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And at the gates the trumpets rang.

The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep."

tolkiengateway . net/wiki/Song_of_Durin

Posted by: cond0011 at April 26, 2015 12:55 PM

I am always up for more and more Kipling.

He wrote these words, "But the devil whoops, as he whooped of old: 'It's clever, but is it art?'"

Seems this poem is the opposite universe. Lovely.

Posted by: Casey Klahn at April 26, 2015 4:14 PM


The Stranger within my gate,
He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk—
I cannot feel his mind.
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
But not the soul behind.

The men of my own stock,
They may do ill or well,
But they tell the lies I am wonted to,
They are used to the lies I tell;
And we do not need interpreters
When we go to buy or sell.

The Stranger within my gates,
He may be evil or good,
But I cannot tell what powers control—
What reasons sway his mood;
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
Shall repossess his blood.

The men of my own stock,
Bitter bad they may be,
But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
And see the things I see;
And whatever I think of them and their likes
They think of the likes of me.

This was my father's belief
And this is also mine:
Let the corn be all one sheaf—
And the grapes be all one vine,
Ere our children's teeth are set on edge
By bitter bread and wine.

Posted by: B Lewis at April 27, 2015 1:11 AM

Thank God for the poets. And especially for you, Gerard. xoxo

Posted by: AbigailAdams at April 27, 2015 9:18 AM

The Rank Stranger
I wandered again to my home in the mountain
Where in youths early dawn I was happy and free
I looked for my friends but I never could find them
I found they were all rank strangers to me
Everybody I met seemed to be a rank stranger
No mother no dad not a friend I could see
They knew not my name and I knew not their faces
I found they were all rank strangers to me
“They've moved all away” said the voice of a stranger
To a beautiful home by the bright crystal sea
Some beautiful day I'll meet them in Heaven
Where no one will be a stranger to me

Author: Albert E. Brumley


Posted by: chasmatic at April 28, 2015 9:06 AM

Nice one, Chas.

Here's another in the same vein. Enjoy! :)


I am an orphan on God's highway
But I'll share my troubles if you go my way

I have no mother, no father
No sister, no brother
I am an orphan girl

I have had friendships pure and golden
The ties of kinship have not known them

I know no mother, no father
No sister, no brother
I am an orphan girl

But when He calls me I will be able
To meet my family at God's table

I'll meet my mother, my father
My sister, my brother
No more an orphan girl

Blessed Savior make me willing
Walk beside me until I'm with them

Be my mother, my father
My sister, my brother
I am an orphan girl
I am an orphan girl

~Orphan Girl - Gillian Welch
www . youtube . com/watch?v=9qZOOb02u-4

Posted by: cond0011 at April 28, 2015 12:59 PM

Yes, good. Thanks cond.

Posted by: chasmatic at April 28, 2015 9:00 PM

"... with brushes of comets' hair... But each for the joy of the working..."
Well said, Gerard.
Celestial and every-day; what Reality is made of.

Posted by: Howard Nelson at April 29, 2015 10:16 AM